


so i'll get the lights and you lock the doors (we ain't leaving this room 'til we both feel more)

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Universe, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 01:43:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10776828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: Night after night, Jon and Sansa find solace in one another.(title from "let's hurt tonight," by onerepublic)





	so i'll get the lights and you lock the doors (we ain't leaving this room 'til we both feel more)

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: while reading, i highly encourage you to put the aforementioned song that inspired this fic on repeat, as my pretentious ass thinks it adds a special gravitas to this particular drabble

Once, Sansa’s heart had been full of songs. But since they’d reunited, Jon had not heard the melodies slip past her lips as they once had. _She doesn’t sing anymore_ , he had realized with a shock to his core. She does not hope for the stories that the songs tell.

Now, she is pain and the strength to overcome it. She is vengeance, justice, her family’s legacy. She is a queen beyond the clutches of King’s Landing, and Jon would shatter a thousand crowns at her feet if it meant her happiness. He chances so many glances her way, searching to see past that straight-backed façade and into the girl he once knew, only to find that it’s no façade at all. She is resilience, and Jon’s heart aches when he thinks of what bore it.

But he says nothing. Sansa need only look at him for Jon to know that he is to say _nothing_ of it. She has had so much taken from her, Jon will not take that freedom as well. He doesn’t wish to take anything from her that they cannot share, and so he comes to call at her chambers only to _give_.

The first night, he hadn’t thought it through. He had been riding on a wave of agitation, of frustration that no amount of training in the yard could dissipate, and all he’d done is clash blades all damn afternoon. Sansa had watched from the catwalk, her spine straight and her eyes steady, and Petyr Baelish had leaned on the rail next to her, whispering words that Jon could not hear. Sansa had said nothing to reply, but Jon’s sword had raged all the more violently for it.

Baelish’s hand had stayed too long on her shoulder, and Sansa had stiffened beneath his touch. Jon need only think of it for his blood to boil as if he’d been set aflame.

Hours later, he still feels the burn as he strides into Sansa’s chambers and slams the door shut behind him.

She is stood by the window, looking out at the inky night sky, and she doesn’t turn or even shudder when Jon makes such a racket behind her. She only sighs and asks as though she already knows the answer, “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

Sansa’s arms curl around her middle, and she turns her head to survey him. She is bathed in the soft glow of the full moon outside, and she says, “Funny. He said the same of you.”

Jon stiffens, her words stopping him dead in his tracks halfway across the room from her. He hadn’t known what he planned to do when he reached her—he is a man possessed, first by some force in his own subconscious, and now by the look in her eyes as she turns fully to face him. She is curious, questioning, with little accusation in her gaze, but Jon’s skin prickles like she’s nicking him with blades that would skin him and show him for what he truly is:

A king with no desire to wear his crown. A commander with no plan of action. A swordsman without his blade. A bastard with no idea what he’s doing. A dead boy and a half-alive man, who can feel his own eyes pleading whenever he looks to her without really knowing what he’s looking _for_.

An answer? A prayer, a sign? Some hint that her eyes might catch his, and she’ll be able to calm this incoherent storm inside his head?

_What do you want from me?_ Sansa’s eyes ask him, and Jon is struck by his own answer:

_Everything. Everything._

* * *

He is not a man accustomed to fear. But he is so, so afraid of the way she makes him feel.

* * *

They do not speak of the nights that follow, but acknowledge them as an inevitability, a necessity, a safe haven. There is so much want and relief between them, and they examine it no further; there is no need for explanation. Jon gives her tenderness, a gentle touch, soothing words, and Sansa gives all of herself to him in return.

When he comes to her, he locks the door and makes his way across the room. She snuffs out the candles on her way to him, and there is nothing but moonlight upon her skin when it entwines with his.

They meet in the center of the floor, crashing into one another with the ferocity of the winter wind outside. Their mouths meet instinctively, hungrily, needily. Her hands tangle in his hair, and his sweep the slim expanse of her back, pulling her so close that he thinks they might converge as one if he holds on long enough.

And, gods above and seven hells below, how he wants to hold on long enough and longer still...

The storm howls like a hundred pack of wolves, and Jon murmurs adorations as he takes Sansa to bed. He braces himself above her, all spread upon the furs, and his eyes worship her like she’s a fallen star.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes into her neck, one hand curling into her sheets while the other skims down the body that is hers and his, because she had given it. His mouth lavishes love upon her throat. “You’re mine, Sansa, and I’m yours. Always yours.”

She nods vigorously, and a gasp catches in her throat when he sucks a purple heart at the hollow of her collarbone.

“My queen,” he whispers, ghosting his lips down her stomach while his hands push up her skirts. His blunt fingernails scrape against her thick wool stockings before he dips into the bands to caress her thighs. _My love, my life._

His mouth finds her warm and wet and shuddering from want of him. Jon’s heart stutters and seems to stop, but he tastes her and he is _alive_. Her hips cant into the rhythm of his tongue and he thinks he might live forever. Her fingers curl into his hair and he moans into her cunny, like he’s on the verge of death and only the promise of her could bring him back.

He will _always_ come back for her.

She chants a quiet, breathless litany of his name and confessions of desire, of _please_ , of love. Jon knows no god, no deity, but the holiness in Sansa’s whispers while his head’s between her thighs.

He touches her as tenderly, as reverently, as he would trace the petals of a winter rose, and the edges of her sharpened skin melt beneath the burning intensity of his attentions.

_I love you_ , he hums into the kisses he leaves at every corner. _I love you_ , she vows in the half-moons she scatters down his spine. _I am yours, and you are mine_ , and there is nothing else in-between.

* * *

Songs fill the halls of Winterfell again, the tales tuned into the melody of Sansa’s voice. The stories that spill from her lips in harmonies fill Jon’s head with happy endings. He touches her earlobe, her shoulder, her hand; and her returning smile is soft, and warmer than their longest summer’s sun. His fingertips linger between her shoulder blades, and he presses a kiss to her temple in a promise.

Whatever is to come, he will marry her afterwards, and he will spend their days loving her like the world might end all over again.


End file.
